Of Heroes and Villians
by Pixieblade
Summary: A Shouta POV from V.5: "The days slipped by, the was no noise from the other side of the wall, he went to school, cram school, did what he was told, never balked, never questioned, and still the screaming resounded in his head."


**Of Heroes and Villans**

The unmistakable crunch of bone snapping under the furred fingers, needle sharp claws shunting the thick crimson blood down alabaster flesh, spilling across the rough-worn wooden floor; the inhuman wailing piercing his ears, striking through to his very core; the violent tears, propelled down the pain deformed cheeks and chin by the earth shattering spasms that ripped through his body; Shouta watched in horror as everything he thought adults didn't do was put up like a movie played in slow motion. This wasn't a fierce battle, there were no superheroes. It wasn't a drunk hitting his wife, the wife retaliating by hitting the son; this was pain, unadultered pain that wasn't aimed at anything or anyone, just pain, and fear, palpable on the heavy summer air, hanging like a damp blanket across his chest, his breathing becoming labored from the weight of it all.

He fled, feet twisting painfully as he tried to go faster, sprinting for the metal door, his lifeline back to the life he knew, because no matter what happened when he got home, no matter what was thrown at him or what was yelled at his retreating back, it would never compare to that painfully pitiful wail that still echoed in his ears. Instinctively his hands went up, trying to block out the sound, but it was like the rumbling of a far off train, it wormed its way into his mind, and even his searching fingers couldn't stop it. No matter how loud he played his music, no matter the shouting or the screaming, no matter the pillows and blankets piled up and over his head.

The days slipped by, the was no noise from the other side of the wall, he went to school, cram school, did what he was told, never balked, never questioned, and still the screaming resounded in his head. He wanted to know, the curiosity was building, but the fear was greater, he didn't want to die and since he never saw them, never heard them, he figured that's what happened, one of them had died. He didn't know what to make of that. It scared him, but past the fear was the sadness, the pain at losing people he hardly knew, who hardly knew themselves. His friends.

Tapping his pencil against his teeth he wondered who they really were, _what_ they were. He fancied them as secret agents, like in his manga, fighting the bad guys and all that, but who really knew? Maybe they _were_ the bad guys; Kubota didn't even flinch when his arm was snapped after all. Everything was so mixed up in his head. He wanted to cry. Was crying. The fast, hot saltiness leaked into his mouth, made him gulp for breath, his breathing becoming irregular and hurried. He dropped the pencil, unheeding as it rolled off the desk and onto the carpeted floor. He was up, chair pushed back, toppling over backwards, and then there was the smooth coolness of the sheets, and his thin pillow muffling the gasps and cries as he choked out his pain and frustration into the night.

In the dark he lay there and stared at the cracking paint flaking off his ceiling. His window was open, a light mist hanging on the cool night air wafted through the sparse room. He turned on his side, looking out over the cityscape, the lights glittering in the distance, a thousand jewels sparkling through the gloom of his heart. His nose wrinkled. Smoke...cigarette smoke...Seven Stars cigarette smoke dancing on the breeze.

There was carpet under his feet, the sharp prick of the metal through his pajamas, against the soft flesh of his small hands and then there was a shadow, a quiet voice that was cold, but not harsh, common sense and understanding and an unspoken plea hanging in the dark, waiting, but not demanding. There were soft thuds of pacing in the other room, then a scary voice, shrill and angry and edged with coming hurt and he smiled into the darkness and wiped his face, nodded and was gone. But the promise hung there like laundry drying on the line, nonthreatening, just existing, and he knew that when the sun rose he would wake and smile and be able to flee his own private torture chamber and be back amongst them. His friends.

More days, more laughter, sometimes pain and more often than he wanted to admit, jealousy. He was happy that things were ok now, but the feeling had changed. He was not needed and he knew it, knew it in the same way he knew it at home, with those _things_ that claimed the superfluous title of 'parent'. He saw the line that circled out from them; each person had their own, sometimes it's large and sometimes it's small, but it was always there, each person with their own. In the beginning his was large, sometimes it took up the whole room and no one could get in or past it. As he played and taught him it had gotten smaller, until it was normal, like most peoples, and then there was that night.

The cracking of bone wasn't the only thing that broke, he saw that invisible circle shatter too; break into a million pieces until reflected everything back up at them, a shattered mirror showing them their fears. Now though, why? There weren't two circles like there should be. He didn't understand. How could two people have one circle? One he couldn't cross, couldn't even get close to?

There was a ring in the room, tinny and high pitched and very mechanical sounding. And then a deep voice-soft, pained, telling him to lie, asking for him to come out into the night. A harsh voice, demanding, angry, and fearful followed him, padded along silently beside him except for the voice. The all powerful voice that made shadows stop, back-up and quake in the darkness. There was anger then. So forceful he could only cower and hide, sink into the very shadows he was afraid of, because this was way scarier. Raw emotions, a thoroughly demanding and condescending accusation. A choice. An outstretched hand. Acceptance. And he was lost.

When that flesh met fur he knew it; his job was done, he wasn't needed anymore and his trip home was one of monochrome shades and mumbled voices and clicking doors and his own kind of acceptance. There were plans and boxes and a truck and then a new life, but as he cleared out boxes and settled into a new rhythm there was a scrap of paper and a small push pin and his favorite superheroes on his new wall, because he could never believe them to be villains. And he still hoped for a happy ending.


End file.
